


Flu Season

by dksfwm



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-25 19:30:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13219650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dksfwm/pseuds/dksfwm
Summary: Scully doesn't show up for work one morning, and Mulder is concerned.





	Flu Season

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going on day five of what started as the flu but is now just some sort of congestion mess (although a fever likes to make an appearance about once a day), and so if I'm going down, I'm taking someone with me (sorry, Scully).

By 10:30, when she hasn’t shown for work, he’s full-blown panicked. He’s tried her cell three times, and on the third time it went straight to voicemail. He was giving her the benefit of the doubt on that third call, assuming her phone had simply died, but when he tries her home phone and it’s disconnected, he has two immediate thoughts:

The first being that she is ignoring him. It seems unlikely, as their partnership is currently in a good place, but knowing them, he could never rule it out.

The second being that something terrible has happened to her. Which sends him immediately into action.

He considers calling her mother before driving over to her apartment, but he remembers a phone conversation between her and her mother the other day that indicated Mrs. Scully would be out of town this week. Not wanting to concern her before absolutely necessary, he pockets his cell phone and swings his coat over his shoulders, bracing himself for the brisk January wind. He forgoes leaving a note for Skinner.

The fifteen seconds after the first two soft knocks against her door seem like an eternity. He doubles them, increases the intensity of the force of his knuckles against the slab of oak, and waits fifteen more. He still can’t detect any movement from the other side, though he’s having trouble deciphering any noises other than the beating of his heart inside his chest. He pulls his key ring out from his pocket and slips her key into the lock, tries to be as quiet and as calm as possible, not wanting to alarm either Scully herself or a possible intruder, if there is one.

There’s a plate with half a chicken breast covered in some sort of sauce, congealed, now, peas and carrots off to the side, the fork turned over in the pile of vegetables. Dinner, from last night. Abandoned. His heart rate increases.

He practically sprints to her bedroom, managing to stay on his toes as a way of maintaining silence. His hand is at the back of his waistband, fingers gripping the holster of his weapon. He doesn’t know why he hasn’t called out to her yet, unable to find his voice. Adrenaline spiked and fear at an all-time high. They’ve been in actual dangerous, life-threatening situations before, but this, the unknown, is more terrifying.

The door to her bedroom is open and he’s grateful for one fewer potential barrier separating him from her whereabouts. The sight he comes into contact with, however nearly takes his breath away, but thankfully, it’s out of relief.

She’s curled into a ball, tight and compact, looking smaller than ever, her auburn hair the only thing visible in between the two pillows at the head of the bed. Stacks of blankets are piled on top of her, and when he gets close enough, he sees that she’s shivering. A quick wrist to the forehead confirms that she’s got a fever, the pile of used tissues, sans blood, thankfully, next to the tissue box on one of the pillows suggests the flu.

He enters her bathroom and rummages through her medicine cabinet, not entirely sure what to give her, but not at all uncomfortable with the fact that he’s pursuing her medicine cabinet. He’s unaware of how severe her congestion is, as well as what her other symptoms may be, but he’s convinced of the fever, and deems two Tylenol to be a safe bet. He grabs a glass from the counter and fills it with water from the tap, placing the pills and the glass on her bedside table. He pulls another glass from her kitchen and fills it with orange juice, which, if her taste buds have any say, he suspects she will refuse; still, he wants her to have the option.

He seats himself at the edge of her bed, pills in hand, and a gentle shoulder slowly rocking her awake. Her lids open slowly, heavily, he presumes, as it takes her a bit to become aware of her surroundings. She speaks, hoarsely, before he has the chance.

“Mulder.” Her teeth are chattering, and it takes all of his willpower to not wrap her in his arms. “I meant to call you last night...” A coughing spell interrupts her. “I’m so so sorry.”

He strokes her hair, shushes her. “Don’t worry about it. I’m just glad you’re okay.” Her eyes have slipped closed again, but her brow furrows regardless. “Well, not okay, okay. But for I second I thought that maybe…”

He doesn’t need to say it, he knows that she knows, his fears, hers too. It’s only been two months since she went into remission. Every day feels like they’re waiting for the other shoe to drop.

The edges of her fingers peek out from the pile of blankets that encompass her. Rather than twine his fingers with hers, which he so desperately wants to do, he lays out the Tylenol in his palm, just within her grasp. “You need to get your fever down. I don’t know when you last ate something, but I recommend the orange juice, that way you at least have something in your system before you take these.”

The corners of her lips turn up slightly, an acknowledgment of gratitude. She takes the orange juice and swallows the pills, laboriously, and offers her disgust as the citrusy flavor slides down her throat, just as he knew she would. He’s pleased that she’s humored him, anyway.

He takes the glass from her hand, fingers barely grasping its cylindrical shape. Placing it back on a coaster on her bedside table, he pushes sweaty strands of her hair off her forehead, ticks them behind her ear, bringing his lips to her temple, whispers. “Call if you want me to draw you a bath later.”

She’s already fast asleep, so his remark goes unnoticed. He makes a mental note to come back later anyway, at the very least to bring her some soup.


End file.
